


A rose

by Morbid_lizard



Category: Fae Tales - not_poignant, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, I love Efnisien no one ever try and talk me out of it i'll punch you in the face, I should try and write her again, also Efnisien cuz dayum, i kinna wanted to try my hand at Crielle, tiny tiny drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:52:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbid_lizard/pseuds/Morbid_lizard





	A rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [not_poignant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/gifts).



He calls her the rose of his garden, a small petite thing. Fragrant and sweet, skin soft, petals a rosy shade. A little angel, a dazzling child. Curls the colour of gold, eyes clear and blue, like forgetmenots. He is a gardener, a simple man he is. A servant of her estate, and dirty and filthy, he leaves flowers on her doorstep, traces of mud behind. She smiles and beckons, a small petite thing, dearest and precious, and he answers her every whim, for how could he not? Such a small petite thing.

Her parents so cruel. How could they hurt her so?

She cries and cries and says “Won't you help me? Don't you love me?”. He holds her so, whispers softly. A sobbing sun sprinkle. Such a small petite thing.

The poison is slow and cruel and painful. Unforgivable, they were, and unforgiving he shall be. She holds his hand, lightly, watches them squirm and writhe and cry out and fall silent, at last. A gorgeous girl, eyes big and blue, wide in fear, upset little flower. It is such a frightful sight, limbs twisted and horror-stricken faces. Dead, but it is what they deserved. You do not hurt such a small petite thing.

He calls her the rose of his garden, and she laughs in his face.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
He calls her the rose of his garden, a radiant compelling creature. Powerful and striking, skin pale, petals insidious and alluring. Eyes clear, gaze sharp, a cutting blade. Thorns hidden well. He is her nephew, a young lithe thing he is. A brilliant child, and splendid and sly, he leaves flowers on her doorstep, traces of blood behind. He smiles and beckons, a young lithe thing, and she answers his every whim, for how could she not? Such a young lithe thing.

Her son, so pathetic. How could he cry just so, under such delightful hands?

He laughs and laughs and says “I want to play again. I want to see you again”. She holds him so, chuckles softly. A joyous terrible sound. Such a young lithe thing.

The scalding iron is slow and cruel and painful. Unforgivable, her son is, and unforgiving they shall be. She stands at the door, watches the thing squirm and writhe and cry and fall silent, at last. Her nephew, eyes big and blue, wide in ecstasy, gleeful little fay. Her son, finally, such a compelling sight, drawn limbs and tear-stricken face. Not dead, but it is what he deserves. You do not cross such a lithe young thing.

He calls her the rose of his garden, and she falls in love. 


End file.
